


The making of a man

by Hino_Hatari



Category: GoldenEye (1995), James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Study, F/M, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Build, Swearing, Threesome - M/M/M, tags will evolve as the story goes, very slow build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-25 19:57:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2634299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hino_Hatari/pseuds/Hino_Hatari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Bond wanted was to become a Double O agent. He never thought it would go like this ... be careful what you wish for, Mr Bond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. James Bond

_**December 3rd, 2003  
London** _

The blasting sound of the landline jerked him awake suddenly, and he cursed before reaching out to answer.

”Bond.” 

”Please present yourself at HQ as soon as possible.” _Good morning to you too_ , Bond thought, ”it’s of utmost importance,” came a voice, dry and masculine, and filled with some sort of emergency, which immediately caught his attention and definitely woke him up.

”Roger.” He ended the call.

He turned on his back and ran a tired hand over his face, the light stubble on his chin scratching against the rough skin of his palm. The morning lights hadn’t quite made their way into the small flat he lived in yet. The room was left dimly lit by the old lava lamp that was on the bedside table and the rays of street lights that sparsely cut the monotonous darkness of the ceiling. It was much too early, on a winter morning, and the cold had crept into the room despite the heater’s best efforts to keep it warm. He couldn’t possibly afford more, however, and he wasn’t home often enough to have any use of it in the long term. It certainly wasn’t worth the expense. 

A promotion couldn’t come fast enough.

What was all this about? Standard procedure usually allowed them a minimum of a week of leave before returning to active duty again after an assignment. Whatever emergency there was at MI6, it had to be of utmost importance indeed to bypass standard procedure and to call him at such an ungodly hour. It made Bond’s senses tingle with cat-like curiosity.

He got up, pushing himself off the mattress, a groan escaping his lips, echoed by several cracks and pops in his articulations. He winced at the numb pain. He decided to leave the lights off, sparing himself from an even more throbbing headache — and also because he couldn’t be bothered to walk up to the switch that was situated by the door, so, so far on his left side.

The carpeted floor was warm and soft enough under his feet as he lazily made his way to the small wardrobe on the side, lining against a yellowish wall that looked as if someone had pissed on the entire length of it. Several chunks were even yellower than others.

He hissed at the pain in his head, and his limbs were rendered sore by the cocktail of cheap alcohol in his veins. 

Hangover. 

Great.

He surprisingly managed to dress quickly, methodically, and with military precision in each gesture. There was nothing more than familiar movements in the act, as his headache didn’t allow him to think much about what he was doing and the few functioning neurons he had were too busy trying to deduce the purpose of the call; only old habits and a certain sense of thrill kept him going. He wasn’t a stranger to sudden, early calls and years of training had him ready in any circumstance, even in a deep state of post-drunkenness. 

The suit he put on was cheap and too loose at the shoulders, something that he tried not to care about but actually bothered him more than strictly necessary. The sleeves were slightly wrinkled, something that he could see despite the darkness of the room — what would it be when he would be at HQ where every room was constantly lit by white neon lights? Even the trousers were cut too long, and he had no tie other than the black skinny ones that he had bought for funerals. Bond wasn’t particularly tall, and he had the standard fitness that a field agent should have.

His calloused hands tried to smooth down the thin fabric of the suit but to no avail. And he didn’t have time to iron anything, nor was he particularly fond of that.

He did miss wearing his bespoke military attire, in which he actually didn’t look like some rookie trying to play in the big league. 

He didn’t bother to check himself in the mirror as he knew very well that he was going to hate whatever he would see in there — a maladjusted young man, with a flagrant lack of sleep and reeking so much of alcohol that he could almost see the smell on himself. He hadn’t shaved lately, not out of lack of hygiene but because he hadn’t had time, between coming back from his last mission and drinking himself to coma last night.

Despite the blatant lack of self-respect and the prominency of self-loathing, nothing in his demeanour showed anything else than confidence with a hint of a far too big ego to be contained. He liked to think it was less a matter of denial and more a matter of pride, but even he couldn’t lie to himself that much.

He didn’t know if he was expected to pack something, or if he would have time to return to his flat again. And anyway, he still had the unpacked suitcase from the last mission in the trunk of his car, as he had been too drunk to carry it up to the flat last night — he had already had trouble carrying himself. 

He looked around the small room, knowing that if it was field mission, he wouldn’t see it again for at least a several days, even weeks. Not that he would miss it much. It was poky but clean, however poorly furnished. And just reeked of poverty in general.

His pay had never been enough to sustain his lavish tastes, so he made up for it by drinking enough to ignore the reality of his financial situation. He was goddamn broke.

He left home after picking up his coat from the rack, and made his way downstairs quickly, skipping a few steps on his way — the ones that creaked. He wanted to avoid waking the neighbors, and particularly that stupid dog on the second floor that never missed the occasion to bark restlessly at him as if his mere existence offended it. Bond might have tried to kill it once, but hadn’t had the heart to do so in the end.

His car, an old Aston Martin on which he had spent two years of well-saved money, was parked down the street. It was his treasure, the only valuable thing he had for himself.

At this time of the day, the city was still quiet, and the sky still dark. He avoided stepping into the puddles from yesterday’s rain that hadn’t quite dried yet; the lights from the street lampposts reflected in their dirty water, floating among the dead insects and little debris left by the wind. 

The cold infiltrated his clothes, making him shiver slightly until he reached the car. The inside smelled of bad tobacco and cheap scotch, both of which were too familiar to really put him off.

The ride to Vauxhall was short, as the streets were near deserted. Bond drove in the same way he did everything else, with impulsive boldness and little sense of self-preservation, especially in the deserted streets of London. He spent the whole, brief journey wondering about the nature of this emergency. Bond didn’t have enough clearance for high profile missions, no matter how brilliant his track records were, however, he was an ambitious man, and an easily bored one, which could be a dangerous combination in a solitary soul. The question was, dangerous for whom?

He stopped the car right in front of the grayish gates of MI6 and leaned out of the window to get checked by the security guards. He greeted them with a polite nod. They greeted back and one of them went to the left side, checking.

The one that stayed with him was young, with his hair of military cut, and a formal voice, ”name, sir?” 

”Bond, James Bond.”

The security guard looked at a screen, typed something that Bond presumed was his name, and then nodded at his colleague.

”Please open the boot, sir.”

”I have an emergency meeting.” Bond’s patience was growing thin, but mostly, curiosity was prying its ugly nose, making his grip on the wheel tighter. His hangover brain couldn’t be arsed to deal with this, and he supposed that even sober, he would still hate this. 

”Standard procedure, sir.”

Standard procedure, my arse. He had never been one to follow the rules to the letter, and he had a deep contempt for procedure and bureaucracy.

He had too low of a clearance to bypass it however, and Bond knew that complying would make things go faster than complaining. He was still tempted to protest and rebel, but resisted the impulse and gave a gentle push to the button under the wheel to open the boot.

”This is a bloody waste of time.” He hissed nonetheless, addressing a severe glare to the guard that remained on his right while the other one went to check the boot and the back seats. 

Bond had nothing to hide. He kept a medical kit in the trunk and a few spare clothes. There might or might not be a bottle of vodka as well that he had bought from Tesco.

The soldier didn’t look impressed, ”standard procedure, sir,” he repeated like a parrot and Bond rolled his eyes, making it as blatant as he could.

”It’s clear.” The other one said from behind the car. Bond saw him close the trunk from his rear view mirror.

”Have a good day, sir.” The parrot saluted briefly and pushed on a button to open the gate.

Bond made a point of making the car’s engine roar before speeding through and heading to the parking lot.

Bloody idiots.

He parked the car between an old Mini Cooper and a brand new Mercedes and got out. At this time of the day, only a third of the parking lot was occupied, most of the cars owned by those who worked night shifts. 

As he walked to the lift, he could barely control his impatience, though kept it toned under a serious face and casual demeanour, hiding his exhaustion.

He had just came back from his last mission the previous morning, which had been a complete success despite the few casualties that he and the small team he had been part of had indirectly caused. They liked to think of people as simple casualties, but each of them took away a piece of their soul, Bond knew. 

However, what Bond feared the most wasn’t possibly being in the field. It was being away from it.

As the elevator stopped on the third level, where agents of his rank were supposed to report, Bond hoped that this was a field mission. 

Bond hated team missions, mostly because the outcome wasn’t strictly under his own control, and there were too many factors to take into account. He had never been a team player anyway, however, it had been mandatory within the military where only undercover missions were handled individually. He hadn’t done a lot of them but he had been so brilliant in the few he had dealt with that he had caught the attention of MI6 and got transferred to the SIS. But even here, most missions were carried by a team. A smaller one but still a team. Only Double Os were trusted enough to be left unsupervised — to a certain extent — and it was the programme that Bond was aiming to integrate.

The elevator doors opened onto a hall, all white and glass walls, too clean and too proper, making him feel as if they were in a lab and he was just a lab rat. Though, with perspective, it probably was the case. He had been trained and had worked long enough to know that in the end, he was just a blunt instrument; that sometimes, the original reasons why he had enrolled in the army, and then at MI6, were just a young man’s naive illusions of patriotism; one who needed some sort of anchor in his life. 

”Good morning, Mr. Bond. Please remain in the lift.”

Bond raised his eyebrows and his head turned to the direction of the voice. He recognized the voice on the other end of the phone earlier today. The man was standing on his right and he had barely noticed him — men in suits easily went incognito here. He came into the lift with him, a polite smile on his face. Bond had never seen him before, though he spent as little time as possible at HQ. 

He was a man of round but serious face, taller than him, his suit was of good cut and his tie of good taste. He lacked of the military posture that most field agents had. While he wasn’t completely relaxed, he stood casually, not completely straight. He reached to push a key into a small hole in the lift and then pushed the button to the eighth floor, Bond’s suspicions came verified: an executive.

Bond had never been to the eighth floor, otherwise called the M-Branch or the executive floor, where the top executives of MI6 worked, and the access was restricted to those who had that one key. This was definitely getting more interesting. Bond’s excitement rocketed up. Maybe he would get that promotion, after all.

The other man shifted on the ball of his feet a bit and after some sort of contrite hesitation, spoke up, ”did you have a shower this morning?” 

”It’s four o’clock, and you said it was urgent.” Bond shrugged noncommittally, refusing to acknowledge the fact that he still smelled of alcohol and his last shower had been a couple of days ago. He liked to think it was nothing intentional.

”You are going to meet her.” The emphasis on the last word had been so that Bond couldn’t help but wonder if he really should have showered. He knew who her referred to, everybody here did. He had seen her around before, observed her from afar, but never came too close. Yes, maybe he could have made a bit of an effort to dress and smell accordingly, but he hadn’t known. And now that he did, he could barely contain the sudden shot of adrenaline that ran through his veins. 

No one met her just for chit-chat and a cup of tea. She didn’t have time or patience for either. She was a small woman, but that didn’t diminish her authority in any way. Her reputation transcended the frontier of MI6, and she had been nicknamed as ‘the evil queen of numbers’. Bond knew better than to mistake her as a simple bureaucrat though. Leading the MI6 was much more than a simple matter of bureaucracy.

When the doors opened again, the difference between the eighth floor and the third floor where he came from was blatant. There were the same neon lights on the ceiling, but shaped in that trendy modern design that showed a certain level of taste and luxury, instead of looking like cheap lamps that one got at a garage sale. Here, the walls weren’t just a monotonous shade of white, but were made of brown wood and glass. It gave away some sense of sober sophistication that made him feel like he finally belonged somewhere — well, maybe after a shower and with a better suit.

”This way.” The other man nodded to his right. Bond followed quietly but his mind was now running wild, having forgotten about his hangover, collecting every detail of what he saw, from the people they passed to the nature of each painting, and mainly, the exact amount of security cameras that surrounded him.

They arrived in a large room with several work stations, only half of which were currently occupied. There seemed to be a sort of general panicked frenzy going around however, everyone too busy to even notice their entrance, and Bond could literally feel the tension in the air. The conversations were whispered but frantic, valuing accuracy and efficiency to long discourse and chit-chats. Those who were sat at their desk were typing away frantically at their keyboards, and those who weren’t made their way back and forth between workstations and elevators. Memos were passed, read and destroyed almost as quickly, phones were buzzing more often than not and there were mugs of coffee or tea in constant circulation. Panic at MI6 was like a quiet but raging hurricane.

”Bond, this way.” The other man said again, having noticed that he had slowed down slightly. At the end of the small alley between the desks was a door, shut, and they headed there.

The other knocked on the door and opened it enough to peek a head inside. ”He’s here, Ma’am,” he announced.

”Well, let him in.”

Bond was let in.

The office he entered was large, elegantly furnished in shades of brown wood and modern interior design. But what caught Bond’s attention wasn’t the decoration — or the fact that there was an ugly porcelain English bulldog on the desk, painted with the Union jack flag on its back and Bond made a point of hating it immediately — but the woman behind the desk.

”Sit.” She ordered sharply, gesturing at the seats in front of her. He obeyed, crossing one leg over the other and making himself comfortable, as if the office actually belonged to him. Bond liked to make an impression, and he was good at it. However, she didn’t seem to notice, and if she had, she didn’t show any sign of it. 

She glanced at a file in front of her and so did he. It was his file. That sparked some sort of brief worry in him, but he quickly pushed that away. 

”We’ve been watching you, Bond,” she said, still not looking at him, ”and despite the blatant disrespect for authority that you seem so keen on showing, you are one of our most brilliant agents,” she glanced at him, ”don’t flatter yourself, those are the ones who tend to die first.” She crossed something in his file and quickly scribbled something else that he couldn’t read from where he was — that and she seemed to have an awful handwriting. She looked up at him, closing the file and pushing it away. ”What do you know about Alec Trevelyan?”

The question slightly took him off guard and he shifted a bit in his seat, straightening himself and shifting his balance from his right side to his middle as a frown wrinkled his forehead. The name wasn’t unfamiliar however, quite the opposite. Alec Trevelyan and he went way back. James could even say that he was the closest person he had to a friend, and the fact that M was asking him about him made something twist uncomfortably in his stomach. This wasn’t going to end well.

”He’s of Russian origin, though with British citizenship. Served in the army and we were transferred together to MI6. He is currently in duty in Ukraine, if I’m not mistaken.” Bond hadn’t talked to him for weeks however, and neither of them was particularly talkative.

”He was. He defected a couple of days ago, killed Double O Seven before we lost track of him. We believe he sold information to the Chinese. Since you know him better than anyone else, you will be sent to his last location and you will either bring him back or shoot him on sight. If you choose the latter one, I will place you on top of the list to replace Double O Seven, since as you might know, to qualify as a Double O, you need …”

”Two kills.” Bond interrupted, the realization dawning on him.

”Yes.” She didn’t give him time to think even though she had certainly noticed some sort of badly concealed shock on his face. ”Are you up for it?”

Bond had always thought that when this moment would come, he would have no hesitation and would do whatever it would take to be a Double O agent, but now that he was offered the job — or at least, a chance to integrate the programme —, it felt like a cold shower on him. His career against his only friend’s life. He had no doubt that if he refused the mission, he would get sent to some remote location and be forgotten forever, but if he accepted … the price to pay was one he couldn’t afford. He knew that M hadn’t brought him here because he knew Alec more than the others. Any other Double O could do the job, but because she wanted to know if he could kill a friend for Queen and country, without any question asked. She was testing his loyalty.

He couldn’t quite believe that Alec Trevelyan went rogue though. He was an excellent agent and a good man. Bond didn’t know yet how to handle the revelation of a betrayal. Everything was just happening too fast and he was overwhelmed.

”Bond?” M interrupted his silence and he realized then that he had zoned out a bit.

He straightened himself on his chair and looked up at her. ”Yes. I’ll do it.”


	2. Alec Trevelyan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that I forgot to write in the last chapter that it took place in 2003. I edited that though. This fan fiction will go very slowly, as I really want to explore those characters. Again, tags will evolve.

_**November 23rd, 1992** _

_**Dartmouth** _

 

The wind was blowing paralyzingly cold this morning, infiltrating itself in his clothes, raising goosebumps in its wake. He shouldn’t be that affected however, as he was used to the cold temperature from his home country, but he had been standing here for a good part of the night and the exhaustion made his body more sensitive to any sort of unpleasant stimulus.

At this time of the year, the lights of the day only peaked through the horizon rather late, and even when they did, the heavy clouds that had been amassing themselves for several days now would keep them from warming the cold grounds. It would rain today, he thought as he glanced up at the heavy sky. As if the cold wasn’t enough already.

He blew on his joined hands in a vain effort to warm them up, but it only lasted the brief amount of time his breath left his lips and then, it faded into the cold humidity of Dartmouth. He had always hated this base and rather wished that he had been deployed to some remote place where he would risk a few or more bullets in his body rather than this damp shit hole.

Alec Trevelyan had never been a very patient man.

He wished he could even have a drag of the cigarettes sitting nicely in one of the pockets of his military uniform, but smoking was forbidden on duty, and if he were caught, he would get the lecture of his life — one of the many lectures of his life because he had had many of them so far and he still was in the process of deciding which one had been the worst — plus a heartfelt punishment. Sometimes, he did wonder why exactly he had enrolled in the military.

He guessed it was something around zero five thirty — he had broken his watch during a routine exercise last week and hadn’t had the occasion to get another one yet. He wouldn’t be replaced for the next shift before zero seven hundred. It felt like seven decades to him.

”You’re slumping. You’re not supposed to be slumping.” A voice came and Alec frowned before looking for its owner. He smirked a bit when he saw one of his newest friends, if he could call him that. He was more like a sort of … the only person on the entire base who didn’t mind talking to him willingly.

He straightened himself. For his defence he had been standing here for more five hours now, and he wouldn’t mind a bit more sleep and some vodka.

”And I’m not supposed to talk to you either,” he scoffed, his breath turning into cold vapor. A part of him hoped that Bond would leave him alone and go back to sleep or just occupy himself with not talking to him, but another part of him craved for some sort of companionship and conversation, both of which he had been starved of since he had joined the army. And anyway, if they got caught, he wouldn’t be the only one to suffer the consequences, even though he doubted that any sort of punishment would include the two of them being somewhere at the same time, at the same place. Shame.

Bond had that crooked smile that not only showed his amusement but also some sort of respectful acknowledgment. Alec had met him a week ago and yet, it felt as if they had known each other for a very long time — even if, factually, he knew very little of James Bond. Not that Bond was particularly talkative, or that he was easy to read, just that Alec was an exceptionally smart man, and Bond had learned to show very few facial expressions, including that one.

He moved to stand just next to him and Alec let him. They fell quiet for several minutes. Trevelyan had never been the kind to talk unnecessarily and Bond didn’t seem to have anything to talk about. It was fine by him. The presence was still appreciated, even though his eyes were now frantically surveilling the darkness, expecting any higher ranked officer to appear at any moment.

He heard some sort of shuffling and a second later, he was handed a cigarette. He frowned at it.

”This is the number one thing we are not supposed to do,” he whispered as if he were afraid of suddenly getting caught even _talking_ about it. However, the very thought of breaking rules and regulations sent some sort of excitement and thrill in his cold-numbed body, and frankly, he was craving a cigarette.

”Are you going to be a wuss now?” 

He had been called a lot of things in his life, but that one, Trevelyan had never heard of it before — mainly because he was still working on his English a bit and also because no one ever really got to call him that as he tended to beat the crap out of people who said less. Whatever it was though, it didn’t sound any good to him and he grabbed the cigarette. He let Bond light it up for him.

There was nothing nearly as good on this Earth as the first drag of cigarette in the early morning. He could even say that there were times it was the only reason why he bothered getting out of bed. He let the nicotine pollute his lungs and send a wave of ephemeral calm in him before blowing the residue up to the sky, as a sort of a general big ‘fuck you’ to it.

He focused his eyes back onto the lingering darkness, ”so, what’s a wuss?” 

Bond laughed. Alec didn’t know how he had expected this man’s laugh to be (maybe something more of a bark), but what he heard was some sort of broken sounds, as if Bond had trouble getting air into his lungs, his shoulders shaking as if he was having an epilepsy episode. Even in his laugh, Bond was a quiet man. It brought a smile to Alec’s lips.

”Are you serious?” Bond’s eyes turned to him but there was no mockery in them — Alec would never admit that the realization of that made him rather relieved, a feeling he refused to dwell on — but genuine curiosity and some sort of strange fascination and amazement. Bond’s face didn’t seem to be very expressive in general — at least from what Alec had seen so far — but his eyes betrayed all those bottled, raw emotions.

Trevelyan tilted his head enough to give Bond a look that made him look absolutely serious. Trevelyan knew that he wanted to be accepted in this milieu, he would need to understand every insult thrown at his face, and respond with the same vehemence, and possibly, with sharper wit. 

Bond stopped laughing although amusement didn’t leave his eyes. 

”A coward.” 

Trevelyan remembered a time when being a coward used to be a capital crime against the nation which one ended up being shot for without any further ado. And those who weren’t spent their lives shunned. He wouldn’t exactly say that times have changed, but at least now, cowardice wasn’t an excuse to kill people anymore — at least not in this part of the world. 

He took a long drag of the cigarette again, making a point of showing Bond that he absolutely wasn’t a coward. A wuss. Bond smiled that crooked smile of his and turned his head away.

They fell into comfortable, unforced silence again. The mist had grown thicker around them, blurring any hope to see beyond a few meters ahead. It was hard to really spot if anyone was coming, rendering their little conversation and smoking even more adrenalized. Trevelyan narrowed his eyes a bit, in hope to pierce through the fog but to no avail.

He pumped a long drag of nicotine into his lungs and the tip of the cigarette lit up brightly. 

He spoke again.

”Where I grew up, the cold isn’t damp or windy. It’s just dry and biting and you can feel it deep down to your bones.” 

”Where is it that you come from?”

Alec didn’t say anything for several seconds, hesitating, but eventually, he decided that at least this would test whatever it was that was building between Bond and him. ”Novocherkassk,” he answered with some sort of defiance in his voice, and he even straightened himself more, his eyes stubbornly kept staring ahead.

Bond hummed briefly and didn’t say more. Alec didn’t exactly know what to make of that. Did that mean that Bond accepted the fact, or was he actually thinking of a way to escape this companionship without being too awkward? Bond didn’t seem the type to care about being awkward though. So far, he had been nothing but boldly straight-forward, uncaring of what people thought about him as long as he reached whatever goal he had set in his mind.

Trevelyan couldn’t help but admire that brave boldness. He had watched the other throwing himself to abandon during the training sessions, beating everyone else at the race. He had witnessed him defy authority blunt naivety, whilst sometimes kissing the arse of some officers.

Trevelyan was subtler. He was far from being an obedient dog and was more like a wild wolf, but he had learned that if he wanted to earn respect around here, subtlety was his best ally. Alec was an ambitious man, and he had high hopes for the continuation of his career. He also had personal goals that he could actually kill for.

Neither of them heard the steps, but they did hear the booming voice, echoing all across the silent yard, ”what do you think you are doing, soldiers?”

Alec liked to think he wasn’t startled. Reflexes made him grind his cigarette under his boot instantly, but he knew that the damage was done and not only Major Peterson had seen them smoking, but also because even if he denied it, he smelled of nicotine and bad tobacco. 

His body went tense and his arms lined themselves rigidly on his side. He was fucked.

”Smoking, sir!” Bond answered, immediately switching to the same position, hiding the fag behind his back, and Alec would have applauded his daring — suicidal — answer if he could.

Major Peterson moved to stand in front of them, his glare hard and severe, his lips pursed so furiously, they almost disappeared into his mouth. He was a very tall man, towering around six feet two, and despite that impressive stature, Trevelyan couldn’t bring himself to be scared or impressed. What he feared wasn’t the man, but whatever this little incident would bring into his personal file — certainly something along the lines of ‘blatant disrespect for simple rules and relevant authorities’. He directed his glare toward Bond. Alec saw his fist but it relaxed quickly when a vicious rictus reached his lips.

”Stay here. Don’t go anywhere.” The man ordered before stomping away.

That sentence usually meant ‘you are so fucked that you’ll wish you still had a mother to run crying to’. Neither of them had a mother.

”Sir, yes, sir,” they both saluted and waited until the man was out of sight again before relaxing slightly.

Alec glanced to the direction the man had left to and then looked at Bond, who had the same frown he had. ”How fucked do you think we are?” Of course it was a rhetorical question. They both knew the answer to that. They would be lucky if they got away with a simple warning. In fact, anyone who wasn’t them would have gotten away with a simple warning, but Bond was known to just create trouble at least once a day, and Trevelyan was … not exactly a native British citizen — even though, officially, he was treated the same way as others were.

Bond shrugged in that noncommittal fashion of his and took a drag of the cigarette that he had hidden behind his back before stomping it on the ground. Alec was tempted to light another one.

They fell into quietness again, but this time, it was often disturbed by some sort of tension and general uneasiness. It felt as if the breeze was even colder, and the mist even thicker. Alec knew that if he wanted to get out of this shit hole, if he wanted to raise into the ranks, he would need to have a better resume, one where they didn’t mention his inherent inability to mingle in, but that sounded like an utopian ambition for the moment.

Several minutes passed and the major wasn’t back yet, which turned their tension into actual anxiousness. He was constantly surveilling the dark, listening carefully to any sound, to the shuffle of boots against the concrete, but all he could hear was deafening quietness and the sound of his own heartbeat. 

Bond was still, like a statue.

Alec moved his feet slightly and stared at the corpse of his cigarette, half finished. What a shame. Those things weren’t exactly cheap, after all. Maybe he could try and resuscitate it. The lingering taste of nicotine and tar in his mouth made him crave for more.

The major came back, his silhouette a mere shadow in the mist before he emerged in front of them. This time, however, he was carrying things with him. Bond and he straightened themselves again, their hands lying flat above their knees.

He was carrying half a dozen packets of cigarettes.

Alec didn’t dare ask, but apprehension started surfacing in his brain.

”The two of you will smoke three packets each. Start now.” Major Peterson’s voice sounded a bit too amused in Alec’s ears, but that wasn’t the problem.

 _Three_ packets of cigarettes.

 _Thirty_ cigarettes.

He might crave some more nicotine but not that much.

”You must be kidding …” He let escape but the hard glare from Peterson told him that he wasn’t.

This wasn’t standard military punishment and Alec didn’t even know if the man could do this.

Bond looked positively furious, Alec was still too shocked to be furious, but when it came, it blew its way with the force of a hurricane. He clenched his fists into punches, but just before he could act on it, Bond’s voice stopped him.

”Sir, yes, sir.” Bond hissed through gritted teeth.

Alec wanted to punch him too, but then, he would have no one to get punished with — and he might end up with all the packets.

Peterson’s smile seemed cruelly satisfied, and he dropped them on the ground unceremoniously. Bond saluted again and Alec was tempted not to, but a look from the other blonde made him, and he hated himself for saluting this arsehole.

”I’ll come back in two hours, to check on you two.” He said before he left.

Bond leaned to pick up one of the packets and fished out a cigarette that he handed to Alec. He glared at the blasted fag, but took it nonetheless and lit it up himself.

The usually heavenly first drag felt like burning hell on his tongue, and he wanted to vomit just from the thought that he was going to have hundreds more of that.

”Why did you accept?” He groaned, not even looking at his unfortunate partner in crime.

Bond didn’t say anything for some time and Trevelyan thought he wouldn’t, but his voice came as a hiss, filled with contained anger.

”I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction to have both of us demoted and martial-courted.” 

Alec stared at him for a moment and nodded. It made sense.

It took them one hour and fifty-eight minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it.
> 
> Thanks again to my two betas, Lise and Liz.
> 
> What do you think? Any suggestion?

**Author's Note:**

> So ... verdict?  
> Anyway, thanks for reading so far, and yes, this will be a long, long fan fiction. And I will update about once a week.  
> Hope you enjoyed it so far, and thank you for reading.
> 
> And yes, this hasn't been Brit-picked, mainly because I don't care much about that, and also because I'm not British and ain't pretending to be so. I mix both British and American spelling and vocabulary on daily basis, and that's something you'll have to get used to, I'm afraid.
> 
> (Credits go to my girlfriend for spotting the mistakes in my initial draft and to my beta for having such a deep understanding of Bond and its universe).


End file.
